Not As All Seems
by Moonstruck88
Summary: Only he and Cameron were left, clinging to one another in the sudden, ghostly silence of the night, willing away their sins in synchrony. Bodies trembling and hearts fluttering, blood rushing at a rapid pace. (Finished)
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters from the series.**

House was limping down the hospital hallway toward his beloved, quiet office when Cuddy rounded a corner and saw his back moving away from her. House heard the dominating clunk of her approaching heels and immediately quickened his pace. Even with a cane, He was an old pro at getting away from Cuddy. He knew every trick in the book.

He passed his office and ducked into a doorway, shivered at the blast of cold air hitting him hard in the face, and crossed awkwardly to the door on the adjoining wall. Escaping back into a different hallway, he slunk to the corner and whirled on his cane around it, preparing to sneak up behind Dr. Lisa Cuddy, still in the original hallway, and cause her stressful life to flash before her. He turned the corner and –

"Wah! . . . .whoa . . ." he breathed deeply and backed away, leaning on his cane for support. "Dr. Cuddy . . ." House mused in surprise at seeing her standing directly before him with her arms crossed impatiently over her chest. Apparently she'd already read that chapter of his trick book. "Uh . . ."

"Very smooth, House," her voice wall all business, "but you've used that trick before."

_Have I?_ He couldn't remember. Of course he'd used it before, but on Cuddy? Now that was unacceptable. _You really should keep better track of these things, Greg. You're losing your creative edge._

"I suppose you're headed toward the clinic?" she raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Yeah," he chuckled and reached into his pocket for Vicodin, "_that's _it."Popping a few pills back, he replaced the bottle and mocked, "In fact, I'm in such a hurry to get there, you'll understand that my busy schedule today won't allow for Cuddy/House hallway gossip -"

"What," she cut him off, "you? Gossip? Snide remarks about your 'incompetent little ducklings', and endless complaints about your 'even more idiotic patients'? Of course not; I expected professionalism and a simple, 'Yes, Dr. Cuddy, I am now headed off to the clinic."

House hated when she got sarcastic with him; she never pulled it off quite like the master himself. He thought longingly of the solitude of his office and brushed past the woman in his way - the woman between him and his Game Boy, his iPod, his peace . . . "What can I say; Mario doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"You still play Mario?" _There he goes again, distracting me. Now we're off-topic._

"An oldie but a goodie. Besides, me and Mario go _way_ back -"

"House -"

"What? Just abandon the poor fella? Leave him to die a disastrous death of the deranged and . . ." he paused, stuttering to find another 'D' word, "_distasteful_ turtles? Drown him in the desperate -"

"House . . ."

"I knew you were a cruel woman, Lisa Cuddy, but I've never seen such a morbid side of even you. _Abandon Mario_ . . ." he mumbled through his teeth, then retreated into his office and hoped she wouldn't follow. No such luck. "Unless, of course, you're just as worried about the little midget as I -"

"Dr. House," Foreman ambled into his boss's office with his head turned down and his eyes focused on a file in his hands. He looked up to find a very pissed-off Cuddy hovering over House and his Game Boy. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize . . . I'll come back."

"No you won't; they never do. Besides, I wouldn't let you in if you did. You got lucky this time," House assured as he flipped the 'on' switch to his Game Boy and settled farther back in his chair, all the while grinning to himself over the expression on Cuddy's face. He really got under her skin, and he enjoyed - wallowed in - every demented second of it.

"O . . . kay." Foreman didn't know whether to continue. "Well, I've got a girl in exam room three. I thought you'd want to take a look."

"Lemme guess: 20's, long blond hair, Pamela Anderson boobs and a bottle of tequila nestled between them."

"Not quite . . ."

"Then no, I don't want to take a look, or anything else for that matter. Why can't you people take a hint? Shoo . . . Shoo!" he swept a hand through the air in hopes of sweeping his intruders out with it. "Attack-of-the-turtles time."

Cuddy rubbed her temples in exasperation and left Foreman to deal with the man. Upon passing Foreman on her way out the door, she shot him a pleading 'help me kill the bastard and dump him in an alley' look. He gave a slight head-nod with his eyebrow raised and his feet firmly planted on the carpet. Alone now with House, he found himself once again appalled by how childish a grown man was capable of becoming. "Dr -" he began.

"Gimme." Just like that, the older doctor shut off his Game Boy and held out a hand for the file. He read the document and furrowed his brow, looking back up at Foreman. The only explanation the black man offered was an equally-confused shrug. "So, send her to a psychiatrist." He didn't understand what the big deal was.

"Day late and a dollar short," Foreman cocked his head to the side as Dr. House read on. "That's where her last doctor referred her. Clean bill of mental health."

"So . . . why, pray tell, is she here?" House closed the file and used his good leg to push his chair away from the desk.

"Because her father _insists _that she's sick - physically. He found her passed out on the floor yesterday. She has some cold-like symptoms, but that's basically it. Other than a few noticeable eccentricities, she seems to be a fairly healthy, _fairly_ normal teenager."

"Eccentricities . . .?" his voice hung on to the word as he waited for a more precise translation.

"I'm not sure. Something different."

House rolled his eyes. _This should be fun . . ._ _Mentally ill, eccentric, hormone-raging teenager_. "Different . . ." he repeated the words, concerned for his own well-being as he scrunched his face up at Foreman. "Good or bad?" If he was going to swallow his pride and go to the clinic after all, it had to be worth his while.

"Neither." Foreman looked down to his belt and un-clipped his vibrating cell phone. He retreated from the office as he answered it, leaving Gregory House alone at his desk.

House sighed and stood from his chair, grabbing his cane and limping toward the doorway with the file clutched tightly in his hand. His interest was hooked - if by nothing else, then by the absurdity of it; plus, this was yet another chance to make Foreman feel stupid.


	2. Chapter One

House opened the door to exam room three, half expecting to find an Avril Lavigne-look-alike, impatiently swinging her pink and black skater shoes back and forth while crossly shooting him a '_what the hell took you so long?_' glare. Instead, he closed the door and turned around to find a rather classy-looking, rather asleep-looking teenager girl, sitting up on the table and leaning against the wall.

Stepping closer, he quickly took in the white cowboy boots; close-fitting, fading blue jeans; and white, long-sleeved oxford, unbuttoned to mid-chest over a simple, white tee. Her light auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail behind her. There were no hair clips, no bright colors. No earrings - just a silver chain around her neck and a silver ring on her finger. Her nails weren't even painted. She had her arms crossed over her chest and her makeup-less eyelids peacefully closed over a makeup-less face. Even with the poor skin - the horrible, teenage acne - she was pretty, in a blatantly uncomplicated way.

But of course, Doctor Gregory House only noticed that she was asleep and wasting his precious Game Boy time. He skillfully chose his weapon - a pointing finger - and prepared to poke the pimply-faced time-waster in the shoulder. Right before the tip of his finger touched her arm, a hand shot up and caught the offending finger in a blood-squeezing death-grip. Mercilessly reeling his hand in towards the wall, she calmly opened her eyelids to find that she was peering into the shocked, confused face of an older gentleman. He didn't utter a word - didn't even open his mouth - only stared, as did she. Then, just like that, her violent grip released him and he stumbled backward, using his cane for support.

Sympathizing with his hand, House began shaking it out in midair from the unexpected, bone-crushing grip. He just stood there for a moment, and then remembered Foreman's words. "Different . . ." he mused, tilting his head at the puzzle before him.

She sat up and straightened her collar, offering no explanations or justifications for her what she'd just done. She understood that he should understand, and no further commentary was needed. She was almost expressionless: not proud, not ashamed, not intimidated, or intimidat_ing _. . . not excited or worried or concerned at the slightest bit. He would say she was relaxed, but that wasn't even it. She was comfortable, but not_ too _comfortable; laid back, but still ever-aware of her surroundings - just enough to be confident yet maintain that all-important heir of nonchalance. And she waited. Waited for him to speak, to move, to do whatever he'd come there to do.

"The quiet type, I see." House finished shaking his hand around just as Dr. Foreman entered the exam room, stuffing his phone in his pocket.

"Oh. I see you two have met." Foreman took note of the speechless expressions staring back at him. "Or . . not?" He looked at House. "Tell me you introduced yourself."

"Okay. I introduced myself." House expected the girl to tattle on him, to tell Foreman that he'd tried to prod her to death in her sleep and then failed to explain who he even was. But she didn't. Didn't say a word. Though her face eased up a bit, and a hint of amusement shone in her eyes. She was subtly observing the sarcastic doctor before her.

"_House_," Foreman scolded, shaking his head. "Rachel, this is Dr. Gregory House. He'll be assisting me in finding out exactly what's wrong with you . . ."

"No," House corrected, pointing a thumb at Foreman, "_he_ will be assisting _me_."

Ignoring House's supremacy issues, he continued, "I'd actually like to take some blood before I disappear this time." He scooted his way in front of House to stand before the girl, and the room became oddly silent; he got his equipment together and reached out for Rachel's arm.

She was so quiet. Just as House reopened her file to scan for the word '_mute_' –

"Fifty cents an ounce," came the first words from Rachel's mouth. It was soft, but deep - her tone was welcoming and reassuring. "Plus tax - three cents on the half-dollar. You sure you wanna do that?" she gestured to Foreman's syringe. "Could get pretty pricey." The slight twinkle in her eyes was comforting; a casual smile formed across her lips. There was nothing loud or dramatic about it.

Rachel offered Foreman her right arm, despite the left one being closer, and he asked her to roll up her sleeve. She looked at him, hesitantly. "Uh oh," she said, sheepishly looking down, "not a good idea." Foreman looked at House for his reaction; both were intrigued, though neither knew quite why. They waited for an explanation. "Heroin addict. Four years. Massive bruising from this morning's screw up." Then, just like that, with Foreman and House staring on, she rolled up her sleeve and stuck her arm out for the pricking.

There was no bruising. No marks. No scarring whatsoever. Foreman stifled a quiet chortle and went on with the procedure, ruffling his brow at how odd the girl was. But House was amused. This sixteen-year-old had captured his interest; he felt a new jigsaw puzzle coming on - just one more for him to ponder over and solve and toss into the 'discard' pile. Yes, this was almost better than his precious attack-of-the-turtles time. _Almost_.

Foreman left with the blood sample after promising a quick return. Without saying a word, House hobbled over to an uncomfortable chair beside the exam table and plopped himself down, changing the game in his Game Boy to something less . . . Mario. It was a test. All his patients shot him dirty looks when he did that, or asked him stupid questions:_ Aren't you a doctor? Why aren't you paying attention to me? What are you doing?_ As if it wasn't obvious. _I'm avoiding you, Mother Einstein. I thought it was obvious_. But Rachel just sat there, content to be left alone as well.

She discreetly watched over his shoulder as he hammered away at the buttons with his thumbs. When he died for the fourth time straight, he cursed under his breath and angrily gazed at the screen, utterly defeated.

"You're depleting your energy crystals."

He looked up from his troubles. "Excuse me?" _Like she would know._

"When you jump over the broken bridge after the patch of ice, point your lightning gun downward and wait until the fish start jumping. Then fire."

"Like it's that easy . . ." he mumbled. "That damn fish -"

"Grabs your leg. I know. Alternate between 'A' and 'B' while shaking rapidly left and right. He'll fall off," she stated matter-of-factly.

Eyebrows raised in surprise, he eyed her for a moment and then secretly swallowed the broken pride in his throat. He knew what he was doing. Why should he need a sixteen-year-old to tell him how to cross a broken bridge? Redirecting his attention to the screen, he muttered, "_Kids_," and started over again. When he got to the broken bridge, he took a running leap and alternated between 'A' and 'B', shaking the damn fish off his feet. "Ha!" he exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair; he made it across the bridge. "Who got _told_!" he yelled at the fish in very un-Greg-like manner. Then a bird thwacked him in the head and knocked him back into the water. "Great . . . " he looked up at Rachel, feeling more defeated than ever, "_Game Over_." He took out his Vicodin and popped a few back. Rubbing his forehead, he added, "Damn . . . I should have -"

"Saved," they finished together. She sympathized with him, "Bird thwack you in the head?"

Tossing his Game Boy aside, he stood up and limped to stand in front of her. "Okay, what's the story?" he leaned on his cane. "Who are you . . .? Why are you finishing my sentences?"

Her eyes were glazed with an understanding that went beyond words. She could hear unspoken things like thoughts and intentions, as could he. She could see through him, and his insides squirmed a bit under the realization. So young. So . . ._ young_. And all she offered was a shrug. An entire minute of silence dragged by until House decided he wasn't going to figure her out by standing there.

He noticed, even through the shirt, how toned her biceps were - how toned _she_ was. She was certainly in shape, to say the least. He stepped toward her. "Flex." She didn't do it. "Flex your muscle." He waited. She wasn't complying. "What's the problem?" he demanded.

"Don't have a problem."

"Then flex. Please. Humor me." House aloofly lifted her forearm to get her halfway there.

"Oh," she said, "You didn't specify which muscle. I guess the toe doesn't quite cut it?" Rachel shook free of his loose grip and flexed her muscle per his request, though she clearly counted the request as more than strange.

House hid the hint of a smirk from his face. "You can't flex your toe." He poked a cautious pinky finger into her biceps and then retreated, scrunching his expression into an amalgamation of confusing and subtle admiration.

"No, _you_ can't flex_ your_ toe." Rachel lowered her arm and leaned back against the wall. "Is this an odd new procedure I'm unfamiliar with?"

"No. I just wanted to touch it." He formed a mental image of Rachel in gym class, whooping all the guys' asses and kicking them to the curb. Then, with a sarcastic edge to his voice, he wondered aloud, "How many people ask you that a day -"

"Yes, Doctor. I'm experiencing a runny nose, coughing, wheezing, sneezing, a bit of a loss of an appetite, and a perpetual existence of boredom, though you're helping with that last one - considerably," she assured.

"Ah. A smart ass." House squinted his eyes at her, more amused than before.

"Competitive by nature." She stared him down - a challenge - and this time, he couldn't help but display and erase a quick smirk from the corners of his mouth. He remembered those very words coming from his own mouth just recently. "Or maybe it's just the acne," she gazed toward the ceiling, feigning undecidedness.

"If you don't mind me asking -"

"I do," she cut him off. Her expression was still warm and welcoming, and if it were any more tender, she might have smiled.

He brought out his stethoscope, switching back into doctor mode, and ignored her very House-like response. _Like I care if she minds_ . . . "How do you stay so fit?" He meant to ask her how she stayed so _buff_, but he figured that'd be a bit off-color for even him.

"Eat when I'm hungry, drink when I'm thirsty, sleep when I'm sleepy, and run around when I'm energetic." She said it like it was so simple. "I give my body what it _needs_. None of these schmaltzy ideas of indulgence for comfort - satisfaction for the soul the gourmand." House was temporarily speechless. He merely blinked. Suddenly pleased, Rachel tilted a nod to the side and finished with, "_Damn_ that was poetic."

House was pleased as well. He didn't know why - and it was pathetic that he was - but somehow he was just as proud as if he had said it himself. "You a writer?" He almost shook himself upon asking. He could not _possibly_ be having a sober, unsarcastic conversation with a . . . patient? A _teenager_? He checked her lymph nodes at her throat.

She was silent for a moment, then, "Sometimes." She tilted her head up to give him more access.

House noticed four, small, red marks scattered in some formation across her right forearm - right where his fingers had been a moment ago. Catching on, Rachel looked down to her forearm. "Dermagraphitis," she explained.

"_Bad _dermagraphitis . . ." he looked at it more closely. "How long have you had this?"

"Years," was her only reply. "Listen," she suddenly snatched her arm free and backed away from his doctorly attention, "we both know: the dermagraphitis has nothing to do with my cold; the cold has nothing to do with the fact that I fainted . . ." She bravely looked him in the eyes. She was unreadable, even to him.

"Then why are you here?" House backed away as well, faking irritation, impatience. "And why didn't you just tell Dr. Foreman about it? You dragged me out of my office."

"Dr. Foreman and I have about as much in common as Michael Jackson and . . . . Michael Jackson," she wrinkled her forehead at herself; it obviously wasn't what she'd planned to say, though it was oddly appropriate. They both had the mental image when Rachel broke in again, "Anyway, I didn't faint. And that man wasn't my father."

Ready to snap, House began, "Then _why_ -"

"I payed him to lie. Look, since neither of us are here for the comfortable climate and friendly company, let's just get to the point. I need a second opinion." She pulled a plastic x-ray sheet from under a leather jacket beside her and handed it to House.

House wasn't one for stupid questions, but, "Where they _hell_ did you get -"

"Don't ask unless you really want to know." She hopped off the table and started for the door.

Doctor House was thoroughly confused, but he did have one idea. "Wait."


	3. Chapter Two

Rachel turned back around as House outstretched a hand for the shaking. It was the left hand. Rachel didn't fall for it any more than he thought she would, but she did acknowledge the gesture, "You got me, doctor," and then turned back to the door.

Intercepting his patient and her pathway to freedom, Doctor House leaned his back against the closed door and pointedly demanded, "Roll up your sleeve."

"We've already been through this -"

"You're not stupid. Don't act like it. Roll up your other sleeve."

It was that next moment - quiet and so unspoken - that everything became clear. House knew the truth. Rachel knew the truth. It was only a matter of proving it for House, and he was determined to do so. The girl was stubborn, but he was more so; he always would be more so. He crossed the line and grabbed her wrist with one hand, then applied pressure to the bend in her arm with his other hand. She flinched and tried to squirm away, but he didn't let go. It was for her own good that he didn't.

They each struggled for control until House yelled, "Hey!" Rachel became still. "So I've got a bum leg! Nobody said my arms didn't work - I'm actually pretty strong in that department. You wanna arm wrestle? Okay, loser has to roll up their sleeve. Let's go!" Neither moved, and neither let go. "What's the problem?" House mocked. "Oh, the _referee_ - right. I almost forgot." He nudged the door open and yelled into the hallway, to no one in particular, "Foreman! Get your ass in here! We need a ref! First to hit the floor gets drug treatm -"

"Hey!" Rachel scolded and forced the door closed.

"We could both use some of that . . ."

"What the fuck is your -"

"Roll up your sleeve!" House ordered once again, ready to reopen the door and scream into the hallway until she surrendered.

So she did. She rolled it up. . . . . Nothing. There was nothing. Just like the other arm - no bruising, no marks, no scarring whatsoever. Just a healthy, smooth-looking arm. Very smooth-looking.

"Just as I thought," House's voice was low and disappointing. He let go and hobbled to the sink. Wetting a cotton swab with warm water, he hobbled back and re-attended to her arm, swiping the swab back and forth over veins. He noticed how she flinched in his grasp, as throbbing pain welled up behind her eyes. Her pulse quickened; he could feel it in her wrist. "Get over it," he didn't even look up from the arm, "if you can endure the pain of sticking yourself, you can endure the pain of a cotton swab."

Slowly, sinfully, the makeup was washed away, and the black and blue marks peeked their way out of hiding. They were exposed for what they were - raw and painful - and House had to say it: "Everybody lies." He shouldn't be disheartened - humans are disheartening creatures; he's always known that. They all lie, and they all let you down. But this time he actually felt something. Was it anger, at himself, for actually expecting otherwise this time? Or maybe anger at Rachel . . . but for what? He didn't even know her. She was a drug-abusing teenager. Another statistic. Another boring statistic. Ah, what the heck - so his jigsaw puzzle was over;_ move on to the next one, Greg._ _They're a dime a dozen._

Rachel pulled her sleeve down, retrieved her leather jacket from the floor, shook it out, and opened the door.

"What's to keep me from telling?" House couldn't understand why she'd just walk away after her secret was blown. She had nowhere to hide now. She was out in the open.

"The puzzle piece in your hand," she hoarsely whispered. House looked down at the x-ray sheet. "So now you know what_ no one_ knows; congratulations. I have a feeling you've _always_ known what no one knows. So where's the victory . . ." she trailed off as a nurse walked by the doorway. "This is a game, doctor, and until you pave a path to 'finish', you're still the loser." She pulled out a scrunched-up sliver of paper and flung it carelessly onto the exam table.

"Why would I do this for you?" he held up the x-ray sheet. "What makes you think I care?"

"Your curiosity exceeds your judgement." She turned from his face and closed the door behind her. The 'thud' - the latching sound of the door slamming - was the worst sense of finality he'd ever felt upon leaving a patient - or upon a patient leaving him. He had outsmarted her, found her out, revealed her secret. But he still felt like the loser. And he hated himself - yes, his curiosity may just exceed his judgement. If only Cameron knew: this time it wasn't because it was right; it was because he never couldturn down a good mystery, or a good challenge for that matter.


	4. Chapter Three

It lay on his desk - the x-ray did. It lay somberly on his desk, staring him down, pleading - calling - for his immediate attention. No, he would not succumb to Rachel's scheming attempt to get something for nothing; he would not fall into her trap. Doctor Gregory House was better than that. No. He would not fall victim to her manipulation.

No . . . Huh uh. He glanced back at the plastic sheet. It glanced back at him. "Avert your eyes elsewhere," House warned the inanimate object, threatening it's very existence with shards of accusation in his voice. The x-ray was in on the conspiracy, he knew it. Maybe Rachel had payed it, too. _Yeah. Sure Greg. _

He was being senseless. House shuffled to the window in his office and leaned against the wall, staring into the firefly-speckled black night above, wishing to escape and be part of it. All background noise - the squeaking of the mail cart past his door and the low rumble of gossiping nurses headed home for the day - was drowned by his senselessness and replaced with one, distinct voice: the x-ray. It was the voice of his curiosity, and the voice of his failing - no, failed - judgement. He had her address: a scrunched-up sliver of paper stuffed guiltily into his back pocket, and hopefully to remain there until the trash can's voice became louder than the x-ray's.

He waited. Oh yes, he waited. But his curiosity exceeded his judgement. It was only a few steps to his desk - a few awkward hobbles - and he cursed himself all the more with each one. More painful than the leg could ever be was the agony of caring. _Disappointment, oh disappointment, do come knock on my door. I'm ever so naive enough to let you waltz on in._

He should go hop into his car, pull the address out, find that damn teenager, and admit her into drug rehab. Then again, he should admit himself as well - thus the struggle. She . . . understood him - or understood _something_ about him. He didn't know what, and he didn't know why. But when he looked into her eyes (_don't get mushy, Greg_) he saw hope - not only for her, but for himself. Like something in life mattered; like his derision and sarcasm could finally be attributed to something other than a bum leg and a fucked-up life. 'Cause she has it too. And look at her.

_Yes, Greg, look at her. She's a drug addict. _But she was young and there was hope. He was . . old . . .and there was still hope. Because hope lived in the understanding that both of them so clearly possessed. Assess life, then deal with. Yes, he had assessed it - she had assessed it. Now they could both deal with it. _Okay. Now it's for the better. _It was his own justification. He picked up the x-ray and made his way across the dimly-lit office, impatiently waiting to lend help and a hand - a helping hand - anything he could. As soon as Rachel could get on with her own life, he could get on with his. Not because she was a bother, but because what _she_ could become was a symbol of what Gregory House could become.

It was a dumb comparison, but he would take what he could get. Besides, she still made for a hell of a puzzle. He stepped up to the wall and slid the x-ray into place.

"What's up with House? He's been sitting in that chair since I got here, just staring at his desk." Cameron took a final sip of her coffee, now cold, and got up to pour the bitter brew in the sink.

"I dunno." Chase arose and followed, deciding his coffee was beyond drinkable as well. They had been waiting for House to mosey on in and slap a new case before them. But so far, he hadn't moved. "Maybe he's missing Vogler."

"Or regretting taking Cameron back," Dr. House strutted painfully through the glass doors and across the room to the coffee maker.

"See, now, how do you do that?" Chase shot him a disapproving look. "This room is virtually soundproof to your office."

"Yes," House gave a sarcastic nod as he poured himself a cup, "thus the art of holding the door ajar while oblivious duckling 'A' reveals possibly dirty secrets to oblivious duckling 'B', and so on. However, you two minions failed to capture my interest any longer than my hand was willing to hold the strenuously heavy door ajar."

"I'm sure that must have been painful for you," the Australian quipped as he rolled his eyes. "What've you been doing in there, anyways? We've been waiting all morning for you to give us something to do."

"Couldn't you tell? I was wallowing in pain pills and self-pity, begging the purple dinosaurs to beat me down or beam me up. Never between - I do hate being in-between." He made a sour face as he touched his lips to the three-hour-old coffee and waved the cup out to the side in disgust.

Chase was thoroughly lost. "Purple dinosaurs?"

"Ach. I suppose you didn't see those either. Damn, musta been me. Something I ate, perhaps."

"Yeah, like Vicodin," Cameron didn't look up from her seemingly interesting high heels, which were propped up on a chair in front of her.

House focused his attention on the damsel and struggled to come up with something witty. Truth be told, he was incredibly glad to see her, but she'd never know that. "A tad bit hostile, are we, Dr. Cameron . . . And one would think a showering of thankfulness would be slightly more appropriate."

"One _would_. If they were presumptuous," she retorted, never missing a beat.

_Damn. What's with her?_ Had he done something he couldn't remember doing? Or maybe _not_ done something he should have? Nah. Not possible. P.M.S. . . . Yeah, that had to be it. How else could Cameron resist the urge to jump on him and swing around his neck in that sickeningly-sweet show of gratefulness for her job back? Not that he wasn't grateful that she _had_ resisted.

"House," Foreman burst through the doors with a business-like urgency, "the blood work came back for -"

"Dr. Foreman. How lovely to see your smiling face," House abruptly cut him off and dumped his coffee into the sink, heading once again for his office.

"That girl -"

"Yes, I heard. Made a clean break for Georgia, on the midnight train no doubt. That's where they all go -"

"Why are we talking about Gladys Night?" Foreman was getting flustered. "I'm talking about -"

"The Pipps. Why of course. How could we leave them out - such a vital part of the equation."

"House!" The glass door closed in Foreman's face, and he stood there, bewildered. Shoving defeat aside and opening the door, "Okay. So you don't want to talk about it. Why's that?"

"You fail to realize that I don't even know what the hell you're talking about. I just like that annoying twitch of your eyebrow. Makes my day." House plopped down into his seat and contemplated taking his Vicodin out again . . .

"Rachel - Oh . . ." he stopped, suddenly realizing, "_made a clean break_," he quoted House. "Why do you speak in code like that?"

"Keeps it interesting."

"Well, her blood work came back, and -"

"Heroin. Bummer. Yeah, sad story." The sarcastic tone was still there.

"You _knew_?" It was a question. But the answer became evident, and this second time it was more of an outburst. "You _knew_! Why didn't you stop her! House, she's probably out on the street -"

"Tell me, have your powers of analysis always been this pristine? Astounding, if I do say so myself." Foreman merely stared, confounded once again by how unethical House could be. "Damn it, Dr. Foreman. Don't look so shocked. Of course she's out on the street, selling drugs and sticking herself with dirty needles she found out on the corner. Because girls like her, with white skin and cowboy boots to match, don't have schools to attend and teachers to humor for an hour of math and geography . . . Of course they don't have the common sense to do well and put on a show for the _world_ . . . to dress and act and speak like a normal human being and smile at all the appropriate moments. Of course she's out on the street at this very moment, waiting for the

cops to come pick her up and reveal her secret - reveal her lies! You're argument is indisputably infallible!" House took a deep breath to make up for the one he didn't take while he was ranting.

Foreman was speechless. He has seen House upset, but never quite like this. It was more than Vicodin-induced embitterment and cynicism this time; he almost seemed to care. The heartless Doctor House. He paused before speaking, not sure if he should press the issue. But he had to. "Why did you let her go yesterday?"

"I suppose I should have risked unlawful restraint?"

"Well, her father -"

"Wasn't her father." House corrected.

"What? . . . . Her file -"

"Wasn't her file." He couldn't stop himself any longer. He pulled out the bottle of Vicodin and dumped a couple in his hand. _No, one . . . you already took a couple. Not a good time to O.D. _He slid one off his now-sweaty palm and back into the bottle. "I guess you're wondering about the fainting spell and cold symptoms. Not hers, not hers - respectively."

"Well, whose were they?" Foreman crossed his arms.

"Got me. Someone who needs a good dose of Vitamin C and plenty of bed rest." House scrunched his features up as the pill went down; that one didn't taste so good. "The blood, however, I'm pretty sure was hers. No wonder she tried to charge you for it. There was some pretty expensive drugs in there."

Foreman suddenly remembered yesterday's scenario, when he'd stifled a chortle at Rachel's joke and brushed it aside as another eccentricity. "She wasn't kidding . . ." he voice trailed off. Rachel had told on herself, but neither of them had believed her.

"Age-old saying. Where's the best place to hide something?" Foreman shook his head. "In plain view," House confirmed. "Smart girl."

"So I'm guessing this address is a fake as well," Foreman closed the file, it having become suddenly void and useless.

"Guess so," House nodded. The sliver of paper nearly burned a hole through his back pocket at that moment. It was guilt - no, understanding. A guilty understanding. He knew what he had to do.

Dr. Foreman sighed and shook his head again. He couldn't believe how ingenuous he'd been, never suspecting a thing. And now it was too late. Rachel was as good as gone. He noticed an x-ray sheet spread out on top of House's desk. "What's that?"

"Now, I know you're not _that_ incompetent -"

"_Whose_ is it . . .?" he specified, an edge of impatience spilling over into his voice.

He thought about lying. Yes, he thought about smacking Foreman with his cane, kicking him out into the hallway, calling him some horrid and unforgivable name. He thought about ignoring him . . . Thought about it. But he leaned back in his chair, released a long sigh toward the ceiling, and opened his mouth - with some great difficulty. It came out deep and hollow. "Rachel's . . ."

**T.B.C **

**Hang in there peeps.**


	5. Chapter Four

Not all is as it seems. Not all is as presumed, or anticipated. And sometimes, nothing can be done about it. Nothing can be done to change it or analyze it or break it into manageable pieces. Sometimes you just have to take it for what it is. And Gregory House now had to take it for what it was worth. This, he couldn't solve.

He slowly drove through the narrow streets of a neighborhood he'd never hoped to visit, Rachel's address clutched in his hand but his mind in a different world - a world only real now that he was forced to face it. This indeed was a mystery, brought to life in a way he never wished possible.

Medical mystery? No . . . Mystery of life? Closer, but still too intangible to touch. The mystery of chance and fate and perception and . . . the mystery of 'mysteries' in general. The fact that House couldn't fix this was disturbing enough, but the fact that _no one_ could fix it was gut-wrenching.

In the back of his mind, he was still scanning the streets for the _white skin and cowboy boots to match_. But in the forefront of his now hard-hitting logic, he knew he would never find it._ This is not your typical, residential neighborhood, _he observed the obvious._ No homes with '2.5 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence'._ He made sure to look for the white picket fence too - he had been so convinced that's where he'd find Rachel. And he could march, his version of a march, on up the cobblestone steps and demand to speak with her father. But there were no cobblestone steps, and somehow, he doubted there'd be a father either.

There was only dirt and desolation. He was surrounded by it, and couldn't deny it. There was no lonely breeze to sweep over the dying houses and rusting cars; the only sound as he drove was that of his growling engine, and that of a gunshot in the distance. It was followed by a burst of yelling, and shortly thereafter, sirens. Dilapidated porches adorned the dying yards. It was like he'd driven under a canopy of storm-angry clouds, as the world was suddenly strange - a weird color, a cold shadow.

He parked on the side of the street and gazed emptily out the window. He was here, wherever 'here' was. This was the address Rachel had given him:_ corner of Linkin and Bently_. How could he be so naive? "Damn," Greg cursed aloud. There were no houses at this particular corner, just some broken-down old shacks and a mangy group of wayward drifters lighting up a couple of joints. He knew Rachel didn't live in a box, or hoped she didn't, so he took the car out of park and pulled away from the grass - if that's what you could call it. It didn't really look like grass.

_What now? _He looked down at the x-ray in his passenger seat. He didn't know where to go from here. He didn't know where to look, where to drive. All part of a puzzle that was turning way too damn stressful for even him.

There were thugs and pushers at every corner and all along the street as he drove. House suddenly felt a pang radiate from his chest as he realized the situation: he was in a bright red, perfectly restored, '65 Corvette, driving through the ghetto, with a wooden cane as his only defense. His worries came to a climax when he saw a .45 caliber protruding from the back of a baggy pair of jeans. He drove just a little bit faster, noticing the covetous expression of the gun's owner at House's car. But it was to no avail. A different black guy stepped out into the street and House had no choice but to brake.

"Shit." He tried to stay calm, keep his cool. He even thought of taking off his high-topped, 'kool with the kidz' tennis shoes - to throw them out the window as a peace offering. Anything but his darling Corvette.

The sweaty, shirtless body with a flashy silver chain swaggered his way up to House's car. His dark blue boxers stuck out way above his sagging black jeans, and heavy Timberland boots dragged across the ground as he trudged forward. He stopped two feet from the car and bent his knees as he leaned back in exaggerated admiration; the gesture was accentuated with a fist at his lips and an "Ooh, _baby_!" out loud to his comrades. The guy then motioned for House to roll his window down. Against his better judgement, House complied.

Just as he did so, he noticed a pistol wedged between the jeans and the dark blue boxers. His quick wit returned within seconds and before he knew it, he was saying, "Nice gun." He didn't know what had prompted it - the sudden chill up his spine, he guessed. "The M9 9 mm Beretta. Comfortable carry, but the barrel always has been too long for me." House hoped he knew what he was talking about; he had noticed that the handle looked exactly like that of a sidearm he kept in his closet at home.

A nod was the gangster's only response to House's comment. "Hot car, yo. Wha chu pay for dis?"

Now that was a loaded question. What was he to say to that? "Gift. I lied for some mobster. Got this baby outta the deal." He smirked. He was trying to sound calm and collective, laid back even. But he was also careful not to overdo it.

"Shizzle. '65, right? Damn sho . . . Fuckin' wicked wheels, yo. Chrome carb?"

House squinted as he attempted to understand what he was saying. _Oh, the carburetor_. House nodded his head and replied, "Edelbrock." Great. The last thing he needed was to engage in a conversation with this thug about the expensive parts under his hood. House got a strong whiff of marijuana as the guy rocked back and forth in his untied Timb's; he watched while he jerked his head around at the rap music blaring from another guy's boom box.

"Yeah. Tha's a bad mutha." He curled his upper lip over in appreciation of the beauty, then held onto his pants as backed up to swagger away.

"Hey," House stopped him. _What the hell am I doing? I'm lucky to be alive. Let the guy go on his merry way._ But again, his curiosity exceeded his judgement. "Gotta strange question for ya."

The guy tipped his head up and gave another quick nod.

"You know a white chik around here named Rachel?" House continued, unsure of himself, trying to catch onto the lingo but somehow failing miserably.

"You a cop?"

"_Cop?_ No. Doctor." He was prepared to spill a sarcastic comment into the conversation, but stopped himself from making that mistake.

"Docta? Don't look like no _docta_ ta me!"

House held up the x-ray and hoped it would work. It did. The guy stared him down, daring him to be lying, and merely pointed a finger. House let off the brake, rolled up his window, and followed the direction of the finger. He released a breath of anxiety and wondered what he'd find when he got to wherever he was going. Somehow, he knew he wasn't going to like it.


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D. or any of the characters from the series.**

A light breeze finally swept across the black tar pavement and through the greying-brown curls near the top of House's forehead. The breeze was dry, and so befitting: a naive attempt to heal a dry and dying neighborhood. The strange hue of the land was dulled into early dusk, and the blanket of oppression was lifted ever so slightly with it.

House stood leaning against his car - cane held tightly in the grasp of one fist, hollow air in the grasp of the other - and observed the vigorous game of street ball from a short, but safe, distance. He could see who he thought was Rachel - she was the only girl out there: head scarf tied like that of a pirate with a backwards (yet slightly cocked-to-the-side) baseball cap. Her apparel was far from the cowboy boots and crisp, white shirt she'd donned to the hospital only yesterday.

She handled the ball flawlessly - her silver chain swinging circles around her neck in conjunction with her dangerous moves. Between her legs, around her back . . . up one arm, over the shoulders, and back down the other. In lightning-rapid motion, she stuffed the ball in her shirt, swung it around her stomach 'til it fell out the back, caught it, tossed it over some unsuspecting guy's head, and ran around him to retrieve it. _Beautiful._ Better than the Globetrotters. A crowd of black kids stood banging on the chain link fence - ghetto accents cheering as the players pushed, shoved, and rolled across the ground. Front row seating to the most exciting event in the neighborhood.

"The rich, white developments don't know what they're missing," House mused. Really, it was meant to sound sarcastic, but it hung on in the air as a quiet truth. He found it hard to believe that amidst all the cop cars and gunshots and dying yellow grass, a group of inner city kids (who could hold their own against a Shaq or Iverson any day) were battling it out in excitement so contradictory to their surroundings. And smack dab in the middle of it was Rachel. It pained him to think about it. Playing basketball one minute . . . the next . . .

He shook his head from the thought, willing to escape it. He had to tell her, there was no getting around it. Sure, he could hop back into his classy car and weave his way through the thugs and pushers back to the highway, where he could escape and never look back. He could leave it, yes, but he could not forget it. No matter how many killers and drug dealers this world may ignore, may condemn, the struggle continues; the dying continues. Rachel was going to die, and it was beyond his humanly powers to do anything but watch - either that or turn his back.

And that, _that_, was the great unsolvable mystery - of chance and fate and perception. House was ultimately powerless.

This wasn't the first time he'd delivered bad news . . . Hell, he'd made a career of delivering bad news. Something about this time was different. With any sixteen-year-old died the idea of hope, but with this sixteen-year-old would die the idea of redemption. And House's unrevived youth would die with her. A death sentence for the two of them.

The sky was passive with its purple-painted glow and fading splash of orange on the horizon. The game was coming to an end and the street-ballers were grabbing sweaty, white T-shirts from the ground and heading home - or wherever it is they go at this time of night. House grabbed the x-ray sheet from the passenger side, and just as he was about to shut the door, he noticed a white _New Jersey Nets_ cap tucked on the floorboard in the back. "Wilson . . ." House mumbled, fixing the hat stylishly backwards over his greying, curly hair. Manually locking his doors, he stepped away and bid his car good luck in fending for itself on the street. "Lay low," he warned the bright red Corvette, innocence falsely stained across its grill - like the deceiving smile of a trouble-bound kid. He knew this was a bad idea. He quickly patted the hood and hobbled across the dampened pavement to the emptying outdoor court.

Almost like it was meant to be, Rachel was the last on the court. She had stayed behind - intentionally, it seemed. Bouncing the faded, leather ball between her legs and around her back, she kept her face to the ground as Dr. House stepped through an opening of the rusty, caged metal fence. He knew she knew he was there, and being that he hated when people stated the obvious, he kept his mouth shut. He leaned against the fence and crossed his arms lightly over his chest, to shut out the sudden chill. He could do this. He had to.

Rachel stood at the invisible free-throw line and arched a shot beautifully into the air. A sweet-sounding 'cling' resounded into the night as the ball stripped through the broken chain on the rim. She glanced casually at Dr. House and then her attention was back to the goal. "Closet gangster?" she offered explanation as to his backwards _Nets_ hat, a hint of amusement playing across her features.

"Weekend street ball enthusiast," he justified. Already, the conversation was disguised as light and harmless; lying undertones dominated even death. It made House sick to his stomach. But he didn't know what else to do. He noticed as Rachel snuck in another glance at the x-ray clamped between nervous fingers in House's left hand. Yet still, he ignored it, and looked to her choice of foot apparel: white, high-topped Nike _Dunks _- so he'd heard them called - mostly covered by baggy, camouflage jeans. "The cowboy boots?" he countered her question, feigning disappointment at the obvious revelation of yesterday's _prep-girl _disguise.

"A tad too pointy for basketball." She sunk another shot and the ball bounced back after hitting the pole. "But great ass-kickers."

"I think you were doing enough ass-kicking today without them." He truly never would understand how someone could roll under another player's legs and still manage to keep the ball.

Rachel gave a light smile and a quick nod, slicing another shot through the air. She appreciated his compliment and acknowledged it, but clearly didn't need it. She was secure enough without it, and House liked her all the more for that fact. Rachel ran to fetch the ball, her necklace jangling and flashing over her sleeveless, black T-shirt. Etched on the back of her upper right arm was a tatoo of some sort - Russian letters, it looked like.

"You just shot up, didn't you?" House's voice was low and serious. Rachel's eyes grew curious and penetrating, and House gestured to her arm. "Dermagraphitis," he explained, "remember?" The skin at the fold of her arm was still slightly red and puffy from the damage. Rachel didn't answer; she hated stating the obvious as well. She dribbled the ball on the ground in front of her, offering him just a nod.

"So," she glanced back at the x-ray, "minor surgery, bed rest, and a good glass of orange juice?" she predicted lightheartedly. House was quiet, dead quiet, and she stopped dribbling the ball. His blue eyes locked into her hazel ones as she slowly turned her head to find some solace in his silence. But there was none, and thirty seconds turned to sixty, his apologetic stare stuck on her stunned one. House didn't have to say it; she understood the unspoken.

Rachel nodded her head and turned back to the goal, picking at a loose thread on the basketball in her hands. "I see," was all she said. There wasn't a tremble in her voice; it was clear and factual. She finally shattered the thickened silence with a well-set bounce on the pavement, sending abrupt reverberations into the now-darkened neighborhood. A yellow light poured sparingly from a streetlight off to the left of the court. "How long?" she asked, setting her feet to shoot another basket.

House had wished she wouldn't ask. He could only find comfort, or something resembling it, in the silence. His abrasive voice had no place in such a sacred conversation. "A week . . ." he predicted.

Rachel missed the shot. She air-balled it - _completely_ missed the goal. And when it bounced forbiddingly onto the pavement and into the chain-link fence, she made no move to retrieve it.

**T.B.C. **


	7. Chapter Six

In two weeks, she'd be seventeen. Two short weeks, and she'd be one short year away from the new beginning of her life. She'd graduate from high school, go to college, get her life together . . . She'd be a dancer, or a writer; go on tour, and tell the story of how she'd grown up in the ghetto. And one day, she'd come back to visit; she'd watch a game of street ball on this very court and have far-away memories of the time she'd almost died. She would remember this very moment, right here and now, with Dr. Gregory House leaning on the fence, x-ray in hand, a light mist powdering the darkened pavement from a darkened, heavy sky.

_A week_, it resounded again . . . and for some reason, just as real. But it wasn't. Because even fate isn't that insufferable. Rachel wasn't meant to die at sixteen. Even seventeen would be better than sixteen. Two weeks away; just two weeks.

_A week_ . . .

She had a week to live.

House never took his eyes off the teenager. He was afraid that if he did, this reality, for even a second, would seem only a dream - and what a horrible dream to be haunted by. A month from now, his subconscious would try to burry this, and it would only rot as bad dream in the very back of his brain. The_ last_ thing he needed was to burry something else back there. For his own selfish reasons, he had to stand there and stare. It was the only way _he_ could deal with it.

He could always turn his back, being the detached, inhumane jerk that he was. He actually thought about it. He was cold and this was depressing him. House crossed his arms tighter over his chest and watched as the dampened basketball rolled for a distance along the edge of the fence. Of all places for it to roll, it had to roll toward him. A plea.

He hooked his cane onto the fence and bent over to pick up the ball. With one free hand, he inched the ball up the side of his leg until it lay lonely and out-of-place in his palm. He looked at it, studied it. Minutes before, such life and magic had sparked from every spinning inch of its being. Now it was dead and insignificant - so oddly lopsided as it lay soiled and saddened in his hand.

"A week." Rachel's voice was low and deep. It lacked emotion. Lacked so much emotion that should be spilling over from her broken heart and street-tortured soul, or from her eyes at the very least.

And then House was caught off-guard. Never in his career had he delivered a death sentence to a patient who then returned it with a smile - but Rachel's mouth turned up ever so slightly in a smile. It was obviously forced, and void of hope - completely void of brightness - but she was being brave. She didn't know what else to do.

"That's actually longer than I had expected." It was so quiet, it was almost a whisper; Rachel's voice was getting farther away.

The light mist had turned into a light sprinkle. The dim, yellow flood from the streetlight painted a thin sheet of broken reflections across the court. A police siren began to wail in the distance, getting closer, and then farther away. It was just the two of them here, and the world was unaware. House let the x-ray fall from his grasp and float to the wet pavement below, then held onto the basketball with both hands.

Rachel's sobered voice, a paradox to the drugs in her system, broke into the relative silence once again. "Was it the heroin?"

"No," House managed to keep the edge out of his tone. "But it might as well have been." Rachel finally looked over at him from the hole she'd been staring into the ground. "You were a dead duck that first time you stuck yourself." It came out sounding a whole lot worse than he'd meant it to. After all, she was dying; a little sensitivity on his part couldn't hurt.

Again, a nod. Nothing more. There was silence. She looked back to her hole in the ground, her lips thinning into another plastered smile. "And I haven't even changed the world yet."

All of a sudden, Rachel's head darted up from the ground and her eyes opened wide with awareness. It was a few more seconds before House heard it too - a violent rustling off to the side of the court. They simultaneously caught sight of a bulky shadow on the road, involved in some sort of struggle, hiding just beyond the rays of the streetlight.

A wave of panic washed over House as it dawned on him: _my car_. The shadow was standing over his car. Without even thinking first, House stood up off the fence and gripped his cane. "Hey!" he shouted in a lapse of judgement, "Get your own!" He didn't care who it was, and he didn't care if the person had a gun. He knew who _he_ was, and that was all that mattered - he was Gregory House: he had a cane, and he knew how to use it.

But the rustling didn't stop or slow down; it had actually increased upon the sound of his voice. He then realized there were_ two_ shadows, locked in a fierce struggle against one another. Two short, muffled screams echoed forbiddingly into the night, as one shadow pulled the other off the road and fought its way across the short distance of grass, straight toward the court. Straight toward Rachel and House.

Slowly, Rachel's hand slipped its way into a pocket of her baggy camouflage jeans, and the tiny glint of a silver blade was revealed when she pulled it back out. Aside from his thumb dialing _911_ on his cell phone, House didn't move a muscle, somehow with the instinct that it wouldn't do any good if he did. But all instinct fled his mind when the shadows were revealed by the light.

A tall black man and a distraught, young brunette. _Cameron._


	8. Chapter Seven

Even in the dark, Cameron's eyes immediately locked to House's, and they never let go. It was her lifeline - a calm blue sea of comfort, amidst a rough black sea of bruising hands on her body. Sweat had formed on the sides of her neck and face, and her soft, brown hair was sticking to it. The barrel of a silver revolver was smashed between Cameron's jawbone and the large, violent hand of 20-something gangster. The other large, violent hand had a crushing grip on her wrist.

By demand of the waving gun, House and Rachel were ushered off the court and onto the pavement leading up to it.

"Spread 'em," the black guy peered dangerously over at House, and motioned for him to move his legs apart.

"Can't. Bum leg." House made the mistake of forgetting to shave off the sarcasm, and correction was the next thing he felt. A swift foot shot up and kicked him dead-on in the wounded thigh. House crumpled to the ground as his gruff cry wailed out in misery. It was excruciating. He wanted to die. Everything was spinning and no coherent thoughts would come to his mind. All he wanted was to end it all, and now. "Shoot me," House breathed in agony through his teeth, his body curled in protection around his burning leg.

But all he was granted was another kick in the stomach, and his cell phone was knocked from his hand. He never would get to bring it to his ear, as the hoodlum stomped on the little, plastic phone and crushed it into shards of regret. "The docta, I presume," he mocked, remorselessly glowering down on the sight. Apparently, the word of House and his car had spread. He knelt to the ground, bringing Cameron with him, and kept a keen eye on Rachel. Shoving and poking at House's crumpled-up body, he felt the pocket on his sore leg for a car key. House whimpered at the touch, and the gangster ignored it, rolling him over and extracting the key from the other pocket of his jeans.

Cameron wanted to reach out and wipe the sweat from House's neck and forehead. She wanted to comfort him. She tried, but too soon was she jerked back up, as the guy left House's side to deal with Rachel. He dragged Cameron like a dog on a leash wherever he decided to move.

He managed to take Rachel's knife without cutting her or getting cut himself. Rachel was now defenseless. She wasn't used to the feeling, but it was serenely appropriate. First, a flimsy plastic x-ray had threatened her immortality; now a guy with a gun. A guy with a gun was only a sweet, red cherry atop her situation of utter helplessness.

Maybe she didn't have a week to live. Maybe she had a day. An hour. A few more minutes. And it was okay. An eerie peace crept over her.

Because there was only one thing left to do. Die. And she would do it gracefully.

Her mind snapped, and just like that, she was done. She was done wallowing in herself, in her illness. She was done thinking. She was done hoping and dreaming and wishing. This, here and now, was it. A gift. This was what she was here for, predestined or not. This was now her purpose. Her own well-being was nothing.

Channeling the perpetrator's thoughts, his feelings - her own thoughts, and her own feelings - she stepped forward. Cautious, but defiant. She channeled everything this moment would mean - everything it would mean a month from now when she was gone. This neighborhood; this stupid, screwed-up life; this vision of greatness and aspiration to change the world - it all came rushing, mercilessly, and a clarity so profound bound her captive. Or maybe loosed her free. Either way: _for such a time as this_.

Rachel stepped forward again. Her mind was spinning, and the flood gates were opening. All her numbing soul could feel was a cry of soothing undulance, a rhetorical meter . . . a poetic prose that she couldn't control.

_It's cold.  
__This feeling._

She shivered and looked to the sky. It held life immortal. Single acts of kindness, and choices that made a difference, were written in the stars. There was even a star for her. But she didn't know it. She knew she was cold, and she knew it was raining. She knew it was dark.

_Colder than this block of ice in your chest.  
__Colder than your pulse snapping.  
__Colder than your icy blood racing.  
__Colder than anything you ever felt for the past sixteen years of your life. _

She lowered her head to gaze down the barrel of a gun, then to gaze into the eyes above it. Cameron was still. House un-crumpled himself. All attention rested on Rachel as she fought with visions of the future, and then as she lost.

_Yet here you stand - cold metal in hand.  
__Dead body on the floor.  
__In your head - this war,  
__That never will end. _

_Because redemption is nowhere._

She saw it all from eyes that were not her own. Someone else's. Someone else, just as hopeless and helpless, street-hardened and soul-tortured.

She held a hand in the air, pointing a finger toward the sky like a gun, and cocked her thumb back. In a loud, dramatic whisper, "Pow! . . . . . . . . Pow!" she imitated the sound. It rang in the ears of all present - quietly, solemnly.

A thoughtful uncertainty glazed over the thug's expression, and his determined stance faltered, ever so slightly.

Again, Rachel saw the scene. She saw the future. She felt the regret, as if she'd pulled the trigger herself. The drugs had never affected her like this. Her eyes dilated, her fists clenched, her head spun a 360 circle.

_It wasn't wrong!  
__It was right!  
__Don't back down.  
__Hold your fight._

She stepped forward again, stepping into the gun - still raised. The cold metal pressed tight against a droplet of sweat on her forehead.

Nobody knew what was happening. But Rachel did. Or she had._ Damn this haze. _She couldn't see straight. Either death was creeping in or, for the first time, she was living. Rachel tried to focus. She had seen this move done before, and she hoped she could pull it off. She needed to be closer.

She kissed the sky. "I'm not afraid to die . . . I'm not afraid to die."

"Good," the gangster lifted a thumb and cocked the hammer back. His face was set.

Cameron couldn't wriggle free, so she closed her eyes, tighter than she ever thought she could. House only wanted some control over the situation, and he wanted Cameron safe against his chest. And he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

Just before the trigger was pulled -

"Wait," House ordered, trying to stall the inevitable any way he could. He had a feeling Rachel was about to make a move, and it was either self-sacrificing or incredible stupid. Probably both. _Bravery wins no brownie points here_. He found his cane and painfully pulled himself up from the ground. His leg was still burning, and his head was still spinning. "Look man, you can have the car . . ."

"I _already have_ the car!" the thug corrected, raising his voice, and pressing the gun tighter against Rachel's forehead.

"Fine. You have it. So take it. Leave us here, and take the Corvette," House's voice was gentle and cautious, pleading. "We have no phone and no transportation, so you can't be followed."

"And the girl?" he demanded.

House looked from Cameron to Rachel, then back to Cameron. His breath caught in his chest. "Which girl?"

An evil, torturous grin crept across the gangster's face. "You tell_ me_."


	9. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer: I do not own House or any of the characters from the series.**

_A/N: Thank you for the reviews. By the way, this story happens to be my first fanfic ever. __I'd really appreciate any constructive criticism you guys have to offer. Thanks for reading! _

The next thing House felt was Cameron's body being thrown against his chest, and his arms involuntarily wrapped around her. Tightly. His fingertips curled into her back and her protruding shoulder, gripping what he was so sure he'd lost. He had made his decision, and the repercussions were now in play. Rachel's eyes had bravely given him the answer he needed: she was willing to take Cameron's place. All he had to do was say the words.

"_Take her," House pointed a sloppy finger at the sixteen-year-old, clutching his cane and refusing to look his young 'victim' in the eyes. He looked at the ground, at the rain puddle gathering near his feet. _

_This sin would not be forgiven. _

He was abominable, and he would be damned for this: for handing a kid to a criminal. But the choice had been left to him, and he wanted Cameron. He wanted Cameron over Rachel any day. He was selfish, and he didn't care. Because he always would be.

"Don't look," House pleaded and fought with Cameron's struggling body. "Don't turn around," he whispered, his voice raspy and desperate from the cold.

"Why?" she muffled the words in his shirt. "It won't make it go away." A bitter sob was stifled and Cameron gave up trying to look. House's grip was too tight. She slumped against him, finding in vain that his shirt was warm against her face. "She's going to die, House."

"She's going to die anyway, Cameron." It was the one line, he knew, that could justify his actions. Years down the road, the same line would be valid, and the body of youth-once-named-Rachel would lie content to be burden-free in the grave. It _was _the right choice, despite how unthinkable, and he could do nothing but watch.

Over Cameron's weeping shoulder, he witnessed Rachel being stuffed into the car. Into _his_ car. Gun at her head, bruising hands at her side, her eyes were still just as hazel. Even in the dark, yes, her eyes were hazel. And they tore through House's intentions, his shame, and it chilled him to the bone. He was destined to watch this very scene play across his head - dance a wicked dance on his soul and up his spine - from now on: every time he closed his eyes, every time he saw a teenager, every time Cameron closed her eyes, and every time he saw the guilt when she reopened them. A sixteen-year-old had taken her place.

The last living glimpse of Rachel came as she threw her hands out to stop the car door from slamming, from sealing her certain death. "Change the world for me!" she called out toward the sobbing huddle of Cameron in House's arms. Then the stone was rolled over the tomb and the car sped out of sight.

"You already changed the world for me," House admitted under his breath, instinctively holding Cameron closer. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was reassurance. Maybe it was just the cold.

"He's going to rape her; he's going to kill her," Cameron cried softly against House's chest. She couldn't fathom the fear in Rachel's heart at that moment.

"You can't fix this," House whispered back. In his own error of selfishness, he breathed in the smell of her, and released it slowly. Then he breathed it in again. His lungs inflated with the mango of her shampoo, the magic of her touch, and the plaguing hint of automobile exhaust in the atmosphere. Burning gasoline and burning rubber. Rachel was gone, the gangster was gone, and House's '65 Corvette was . . . gone.

Only he and Cameron were left, clinging to one another in the sudden, ghostly silence of the night, willing away their sins in synchrony. Bodies trembling and hearts fluttering, blood rushing at a rapid pace. Minutes drizzled by in the dark, and neither made a move to pull away.

Cameron dug her nails into House's back, to make up for the fingertips she felt curled against her own back She hated him and his screwed-up priorities. He had traded her life for that of a sixteen-year-old, and had given Cameron no choice in the matter. He . . . _saved_ her life, and she loved him. And she _hated_ him! She dug her nails deeper, wishing him to flinch under the pain.

He felt her punishment. And he curled his own fingers tighter against the agonizing warmth of her back. He told himself it was merely right, to hold her. But he needed her. She was his vindication. He needed her presence to show him just how much it was worth. He had no apology when he held her. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"Why are you out here?" House's tone was rough and ragged in his chest. It rumbled against Cameron's buried face.

She pulled away just enough to speak. Her soft cheeks, tear-streaked and remorseful, peered pitifully up at House. "Rachel's father called." She tried to be strong, but her voice caught in her throat upon hearing herself say the words.

"What?" he gaped, pulling out of her arms completely.

Cameron took the blow of his absence in stride and tried, against the odds, to steady herself. "Dr. Lomack, in Radiology - he's an old acquaintance of Rachel's father . . ." She sniffled and straightened her body as a chill crept from the back of her neck to her toes. "Dr. Lomack saw Rachel leaving the clinic yesterday, and he was shocked. Rachel ran away from home three years ago, and nobody's seen her since. Dr. Lomack called her father, and her father called the hospital."

Dr. House waited for her to continue, but she never did. She seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown, and as much as he wanted to hold her, he needed the information more. "And? How does that equate to you ending up in the ghetto?"

"I was looking for you, so you could take the call. But Dr. Foreman told me you'd just left. He told me you were on your way to see Rachel with some test results. So I ran down to the parking garage, and you were pulling out when I got there. I hopped in my car and followed you."

"You've been behind me all this time?" He feigned irritation, but the sweeping emotion was disbelief.

She gave him a bashful nod, then hesitated. "Well, no. I lost you when you turned into this . . . neighborhood," she timidly looked around. "It took me fifteen minutes to realize where you had turned, and then another fifteen to find you car." She couldn't believe they were discussing this now. A girl was dying. Were they so calloused and indifferent, that life was worth only the silence they'd given, and no more?

"So where's _your_ car?"

"Stolen."

House figured as much. The thug wouldn't have left the two of them here if Cameron's car was still part of the picture. "When?" he lowered his voice, a certain softness returning.

"When _he_," she gestured toward the street where the Corvette had been, "grabbed me. He took my keys and threw them to his friend on the other side of the road, where my car was."

"Why were you _out_ of your car?" House scolded. But he knew the answer. "To look for me . . ." It wasn't a question. His face dropped to the ground and his shoulder dropped of all resolve. This was no puzzle. This was a nightmare - and he wasn't waking up.

There was one thing he knew: Dr. Allison Cameron was safe. She was his stronghold, his one constant in this horrible algebra equation, of endless variables and infinite possibilities. Cameron was here, he could touch her, he could see her. He would see her tomorrow.

_Fuck tomorrow_.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that tomorrow holds no promise. His arms disregarded his pride and pulled her back to him. He held on for dear life, for dear old death at the door - at someone's door. But not his. And not hers. Not tonight.

_**The End.**_


End file.
